Michael Collins - Act of Fear

I had not really talked it out with old Schmidt before Petey was beaten and I went to the hospital. Schmidt had been on Water Street all the day last Thursday, he might have seen something he didn’t even remember. Then there was Petey. He should be able to talk a little by now. I could ask better questions now, especially about the Driscoll girl.

There was the Driscoll girl’s building. Someone might have heard something that would mean more to me than to the police. And there were her other men. There was a great deal I could do. Too much. There is a kind of paralysis that comes when there seems to be too much to get done.

I got up and went out into the kitchen for another beer. Then I turned on the television and sat in Marty’s best easy chair. I told myself that I would think while I watched TV. By the end of the latest super-spy show I had still not begun to think. I liked the TV show. It was so intricately simple, so complex and yet childish. All fuss and feathers around the most simple of concepts — the chase; the Keystone Kops. A beautiful comic-book world where the utterly impossible has such a real surface and where every possible terror is looked at, but there are no surprises.

After the show ended I had no chance to think.

I had left my chair to look again out the window. The street was clear. Nothing but Friday night revellers beginning to build up steam as midnight approached and the shank of the night was at hand. Then I heard the noise in the hallway outside the door.

Footsteps walked lightly in the corridor, but with no attempt to be silent. Two men from the sound of the steps. Then they stopped — outside the door of Marty’s apartment. I saw the shadows of their feet beneath the door from where I stood silent in the dim apartment. The blue-white light of the TV was behind me. I looked around for a weapon.

The doorbell buzzed.

I stood there and looked at the door. The doorbell buzzed again, nice and polite but a little more insistently. Somehow I did not think the two unknown men who had been watching me would have rung the doorbell. But I waited for the third ring, prolonged this time, and then the voice.

‘Open it up, Fortune!’

A voice I knew, but for a moment I did not place it. It was a familiar voice, but not that familiar.

‘Come on, buddy boy, we know you’re in there.’

I got it. Jake Roth. It was the voice of Andy Pappas’ best gun. I went to the door and opened it. Even if I had been worried about Roth, I would have opened the door. Roth would have kicked it in within seconds anyway. I saw that the tall, skinny killer was not alone. He had Max Bagnio with him, a little apart and a step or two behind to Roth’s right with a clear view of the door. Little Max had his hands in his suit coat pockets. Roth eyed me up and down with those snake eyes. His long neck angled forward as he made a quick survey of the room behind me.

‘Tell us we can come in, buddy boy,’ Roth said.

I stepped back. ‘Sure, come ahead.’

Roth and Max Bagnio ambled into the room like the well-trained team they were. They duplicated no effort. Each surveyed a section of the room. Roth checked what had been out of sight from the doorway and checked the kitchen. Bagnio took the dark corners, the bedroom, and the bathroom. They shared the closets. They came together again in the living-room where I stood. They had been in position to cover each other the entire time, and they had not spoken a word.

‘Andy send you?’ I asked.

They were still looking around from where they stood in the living-room. They had not actually looked at me since coming into the apartment. Max Bagnio seemed disappointed. I felt cold. Bagnio was looking for Marty. Little Max was disappointed that Marty was not there. I’m not even a woman and I shuddered at the thought of his hands on me. (Maybe if I had been a woman I would not have shuddered. Women have their own values.) Roth wandered around looking under pillows and cushions.

‘Mister Pappas sent us, peeper,’ Roth said.

None of Andy Pappas’ men can understand why Andy lets me talk to him the way I do any more than I understand it myself. They have seen men have both arms broken for much less. This does not seem to bother Bagnio much, he is only curious. What Andy does is gospel to him, but he is interested. Roth was bothered. Roth did not like me calling his boss Andy. It seemed to annoy him.

‘What can I do for Andy this time?’ I asked, rubbing the first name in.

Roth still had not looked at me again. The vulture-like gunman dropped a chair cushion as if disappointed that he had not found at least an old garter. He turned to me. He hit me flush on the mouth. I never even saw the punch coming. All I saw was Roth, a thin smile of very good capped teeth, and then I was sitting on the floor.

‘You’re still asking questions,’ Roth said.

I shook my head to clear it. Roth hit hard for a skinny man. I guessed that he was all muscle, like a whip. I tasted blood. My lip had already begun to swell. A tooth felt loose. I shook my head again and got up. I got halfway up. My hand was still on the floor. Roth hit me again. He hit twice. The right caught me on the cheek, I think, and the left hit my nose. The right lifted me up, and my nose was directly in the line of the left. I remember thinking that Jake Roth had not done it properly. He had led with his right. Very poor boxing.

‘You talked to the cops,’ someone said. I think it was still Roth.

I saw Max Bagnio. He seemed to be standing over me. That was odd, because he had been behind me. I wondered when he had moved. Bagnio looked bored. The little gunman was still looking around wistfully for Marty, I think. Then I realized that Max had not moved, I had. The last two punches had knocked me across the floor beyond Bagnio. I was lying flat with my head almost under a chair. I could taste a lot of blood and my nose was numb. I guessed that it was broken. My cheekbone felt red hot. There were tears in my eyes. My head seemed to belong to someone else. My legs would not move. Then Max Bagnio seemed to float away. I shook my head and Bagnio came back. So did Jake Roth.

‘You were told,’ Roth said. ‘We told you.’

His voice seemed distant, in some other room, although his face was close. The tone of his voice was one of hurt bewilderment. I had been told. By Pappas. By Jake Roth. And yet I had asked questions. I had gone to the police. Roth did not understand that. I had been told. It was confusing to Roth. His face bent close down over me. I felt his hands pinching my ears. He helped me up to a sitting position. The pinching was clearing my head a little. Roth leaned me against a chair. His face bent close.

‘You didn’t listen, buddy boy,’ Roth said.

His hand slapped my face lightly. On the broken nose. It hurt.

‘You got to listen,’ Roth said.

His hand slapped again. There was a lot of pain. I felt the chair behind my shoulders. I leaned my left shoulder hard against the chair, pressed my left shoulder against the chair, and swung my right fist with all the strength I had. It hit Roth flush on the chin. I felt the punch go all through my arm and up to my nose. It felt good. It cleared my head for a moment. I saw Roth go over backwards and sprawl all long legs kicking in the air. He had been crouched and off balance and my punch had not been bad. I even saw a little blood on his face as he came back up. He came back up fast. He had been hit before, and I’m no fighter. But there was blood on his mouth. I guessed that he had bitten his lip when I hit. I grinned. He kicked me in the stomach.

‘You dirty little son-of-a-bitch!’ Roth snarled.

He kicked me in the side where I lay doubled up. His shoes were big and pointed. I felt hands picking me up. It was Max Bagnio. He sat me against a chair again. Max seemed to be holding Roth away now. I sat there and saw them argue. Then Roth leaned down again.